Our House: A Sentimental Essay on Partnering
Artwork by Adelynn Rose Art
Your name on the mortgage, my frames on the wall.
Your tools and time building cedar raised beds, my pole beans vining up day by day by day.
White windowed envelopes arriving each month for you, my chosen emoji sent via Venmo - a brick bungalow with a tree in the front yard.
You jack hammered up the basement floor to put in a second bath, I carried concrete remnants up and out piece by piece by piece.
You searched for tile and always asked my opinion. I hesitated, then didn’t.
You taught me how to mow the grass. I told you where we kept the can opener and cold medicine.
It was always ours, you said, when recounting our latest projects or detailing our move to a new state.
Ours even when my self doubt crept in and shouted, “Not mine, not really.”
It was ours as we wound holiday lights around the front bushes and ours when the basement drain overflowed.
It was ours when the bent screen door let in a breeze on Spring weekend mornings and ours covered in ice and snow.
Ours in pieces and wet with paint and ours put back together better than it was before.
It’s ours to remember and drive by years from now.
Ours to mark a time in our twenties with brick and hydrangeas.
Ours in a blink and ours for five whole years.
Our house,
Our headache,
Our home.